


Passenger Seat

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Night at the Museum (2006 2009 2014), Night at the Museum (2006 2009)
Genre: Angst, Closeted Character, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2885999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavius wanted to drive anywhere and everywhere, to sit close, with Jedediah's gloves on the steering wheel. He wanted it to <em>keep going.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Passenger Seat

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in two days is a record for me, by an extremely wide margin, but at least they're both quite short. Very, very scantily edited, but I guess that at least says something about how very far I have fallen for _The Secret of the Tomb_. Let it be known that I have ample experience in being driven places by a good friend I'm head over heels for but who doesn't reciprocate.

             Jedediah took to the car like Caesar to war. There was somehow never a question about whether or not Octavius would drive; since that very first night, Jedediah always ambled straight to the driver's-side door, usually with plenty of words, but none of them about whether Octavius might like a go, or he himself want a break.

             Which was, of course, absolutely fine by Octavius. He very much enjoyed being in the passenger seat while Jedediah drove. There was something relaxing and comforting about it: he was able to shrug off responsibility for a while, hand over the reigns and just enjoy the ride and the company, sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting or arguing, sometimes just nodding their heads along to the booming music of the night-time museum parties.

             Over the years, however, it got worse.

             It started out as just a need, like having a new friend, even though they'd been friends, at that point, for over two years. He wanted to spend time with Jedediah, even though they already did that every night. He wanted to sit near him. He wanted to drive anywhere and everywhere around the museum, figure out how to navigate the stairs and elevators and see every room on every floor, with Jedediah's gloves on the steering wheel. He wanted it to _keep going._

             Then it became uncomfortable. A turning feeling in his chest, a tightness in his throat, a wriggle of his hips and back as he tried to get comfortable in what had always been a comforting seat. There were times when he could no longer catch Jedediah's eye – when his gaze stayed forward, out of the windscreen, even when they were talking or dancing – and when his hand felt awkward as it stayed planted firmly in his own lap instead of straying somewhere else. Where, exactly, it was meant to be was beyond Octavius, but he knew it felt odd just sitting there, even though he was sure it had done just that for years.

             It got worse and worse and worse.

             Octavius woke in a box full of white chunks almost as big as himself, and immediately wriggled about, trying to find Jedediah in the mess. Jed was higher up than him, cursing and striking out with his fists until Octavius forced his way through the chaos and cried out his name. They beat upon the lid together until Larry let them out, but when they stood on the lip of the box with all their companions floundering in the sea of packing peanuts (peanuts! More like mattresses to them), he kept himself apart from Jed, and fiddled with the strings of his cape, which he knew he only did when he felt out of place, so then why was he doing it with Jedediah an arm's length away?

             It wasn't until after their sojourn to Washington that Octavius managed to pin the feeling down. It took a bit of metaphorical wrestling, but being in a separate pocket to Jedediah on Larry's shirt was remarkably conducive to clear thought.

             Why had Jedediah pulled away?

             There had been the flush of victory, the growing, bursting, exultant feeling of triumph in battle, of having saved Jedediah's life, handed over his own sword, fought together against a common enemy as if they'd been doing it all their lives –

             And Jedediah had _pulled away._

             He had been _there,_ closer than the driver's seat, closer than fighting either against each other or together against another; and he had grinned and clapped Octavius on the back, then put his hands on his shoulders and... looked aside, stepped back, shuffled away. In the excitement of the moment, Octavius had been so overcome with the joy of the victory and the hug that he had seen no need to think on it, but afterwards... Afterwards, it had broken his heart, as he'd made the realisation.

             He was in love. And Jedediah – perhaps not completely, but in some way at least – had seen that, and drawn away from it. Jedediah whooped and yelled and cheered about their new plane, but the exhilaration of flight was intensified in Octavius' belly by the swooping sensation inspired by Jedediah's shoulders twisting under the leather of his vest in front of him.

 

             Jedediah took to the car like Caesar to war, and Octavius took to the passenger seat perhaps more like a scribe to the arena.

 

             It could be fine. It could be fine for minutes or hours or days on end, when Octavius would laugh and chat and dance with Jed and be utterly at ease. Every time, however – and, inevitably, almost always in the car – it would end up broken, his ease and respite shattered by a laugh or a blinding smile, flashed at him over the gearbox, or a moment of silence in which he was left to his thoughts. Then, Octavius' heart would seem to force its way up into his throat, his ribs would feel too tight and his armour too heavy, and he would fiddle with the strings of his cape or the edges of his tunic, and clench his fingers against the armrest on the door, and try to say something, anything, that would not draw suspicion upon him. He found himself hiding things away: little things – a comment about Ahkmenrah's abdomen, a reference to Jedediah's hand; enthusiasm here, disappointment there – that seemed to have no common factor. The only thing he had to hide about them was that they were coming from himself.

             And he wanted desperately to pretend that everything was okay, and that he and Jedediah were friends, merely friends, always friends, who would endure at each other's side; but it was difficult, so difficult, especially when Jed would send a humourless half-frown at him from the driver's seat when he was silent, or Octavius requested a seemingly random chest bump, or they got a little too close in dancing or fighting or walking or laughing, and Octavius let a hand or a cheek linger too near and too long against Jedediah's skin. In those moments, he saw the brief confusion and doubt which crossed features that were made for smiling, and he drew apart with smooth haste.

             They would be in peril, and Octavius would throw all caution to the wind and beg for a hand to hold, and moments later deny everything in the face of Jedediah's distaste.

 

             He would sit close beside him, in the confined cabin of the car, and breathe his air, and think of their shoulders touching; and say nothing.


End file.
